by Jo Thomas
She’s kicking and knocking over the bucket in her excitement, and I wonder who’s been feeding her before now. Giovanni Bellanuovo, I suppose, but he’s been gone for nearly a week. Mind you, if you had to live off the land, this is the place to do it. I look around. There’s a vegetable plot to the side of the house, very overgrown and I have no idea what’s in it. And there are bushes and trees that I don’t recognise. I know the olives, and the almonds dotted in between them. But I haven’t a clue about any of the rest. The most I had in the flat was some herbs I bought from the supermarket and put into pretty pots on the windowsill. There wasn’t much room for anything else in the places I grew up in either. Although I did once notice some green plants on our neighbour’s balcony, I realise they weren’t to enhance his cooking.
I always fancied an allotment, though Ed said I’d get bored of it and move on to something else before I even made it to the top of the waiting list. But I bought books on what I was going to grow, and I’d get them out every now and again and dream about what I could plant. Maybe I’d dig them out now, see if I could work out what was growing here.
But first I had to try and sort out the leak in the trullo or I’d never be able to get that up and running. I needed the money it would bring in if I was going to do any of the other repairs and start buying furniture. After Brandon’s feisty emails about not being able to rely on me and having to look for other designers, I really needed to get something to him, and fast.
Brandon and I go back years. He’d come to the college and leave business cards around, looking for young art students to work on a freelance basis for him. In other words, cheap labour. When Ed and I decided to buy our flat, we knew we could make money if I did it up and sold it on, but I’d still have to work to cover my half of the bills. Working part-time in Pizza Palace wasn’t going to pay enough, so I rang Brandon. I only ever meant it to be temporary. Just until the flat was finished and I could start to paint again, maybe get an exhibition together. But there was always something to do on the flat. And the temporary work became more permanent. It just sort of happened. There was never a time when I could stop working for Brandon and do what I’d trained to do: paint. I still rely on him. If I didn’t work for Brandon, I’d have no income at all. Painting is something I used to do in another lifetime.
I look around the barn. The goat is now lying down on the veranda, looking quite content, and I can’t help but think she should have somewhere to sleep at night. I start to shift some of the junk and in no time I’ve created a pen out of some crates stacked on their sides, an old door and a large plastic tub that looks as if it might once have had an olive tree in it. I’m pleased with my work and open the door a couple of times, like a gate. She can sleep in here. I can just imagine the consequences if anything happened to her whilst she was in my care!
I add a couple more handfuls of food to her bucket and shake it. ‘Come on, goat,’ and she trots happily into the home-made pen. I leave the door open; I’ll only shut her in at night. Ha! Wait till I tell Beth I’m looking after a goat. But I can’t keep referring to her as ‘goat’, even if she isn’t mine. Her jaws are moving like she’s chewing gum. Her long beard bobbing up and down reminds me of Ed’s mother’s hairy chin. Ed’s mother is called Daphne. We never got on. In fact, when Ed and I moved in together, she made it very clear that she didn’t think I was good enough for her son, and told me so. Told me she’d been to a clairvoyant and that Ed was going to marry and have two beautiful sons, but sadly it wasn’t with me. Every Christmas she bought me the same gift, a scarf and some Turkish delight, and then gave Ed a big cheque to get himself something. I still have the scarves. They’re mostly pastel colours, where I’m more of a bold colours person. I’ve never been quite sure what to do with them. I don’t like Turkish delight and always gave it to the food bank. That was Daphne. Daphne, I think, looking at the goat. That’ll do. Daphne the goat. It makes me smile anyway.
As I turn to go, something moves in the corner of the barn, making me jump. Oh God! Not rats! Two shiny eyes peer out at me. I take a step forward. It looks like a really big rat, judging by the size of its head. I pick up a long stick that’s leaning against the wall. Why? I have no idea. What good is a stick going to do me? The rat’s going to run. But it doesn’t run, and as I get closer, I can see it’s not a rat, but a cat. A small grey cat. It’s not moving and I wonder if it’s hurt. I step forward, and it hisses and spits and shows its teeth. I back off. It’s feisty all right. I slowly put down the stick, and turn back to the cat. Then I see it . . . or should I say them. Three little kittens feeding from her. That’s why she’s not moving. She’s made herself a bed in amongst the netting that’s rolled up in here. I decide the best thing I can do is step away and go and find her something to eat. There must be something among all that stuff I bought today.
Returning with some milk and eggs, I put the dish on the floor a little distance from her so as not to disturb her. I don’t think she’s going to come anywhere near it while I’m still here. She needs to do this in her own time. I get the impression she’s feeling a bit like me, trapped and backed into a corner, terrified and scared but spitting and hissing on the outside.
I step back, kicking a box of glass jars and bottles, making her hiss again. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I say, as I back away with my hands out, careful not to upset her any more.
I take my shopping into the kitchen. It’s no good. I can’t make myself at home here until I’ve begun moving the rubbish out. And that’s what I’m going to have to do. I start sliding, lifting and dragging the boxes to the front door and form a huge pile there. It looks like someone started the job but never actually got round to finishing it. Giovanni Bellanuovo was obviously a man trying to get his affairs in order in his own way. Looks like he just ran out of time on this one.
I think once again of my grandad, who always believed I could do anything I turned my hand to. And thinking of him makes me want to cook. I go to my pile of books on the kitchen floor and put them on the windowsill. Now it’s starting to feel like I live here. I flick through one of my well-thumbed recipe books. There’s nothing else for it, I think, looking at my shopping and back at the book: piccalilli! Grandad loved piccalilli.
I run back to the shed and grab the box of jars I almost fell over, then pull the vegetables from their blue carrier bags. I wash them and chop them, the perfume of the fennel filling the room, comforting me already. Then the green beans, the broccoli and cauliflower, the chillies and the shallots. I put them all in a big bowl, cover them in water and add salt. Then I chop the onions, and when my eyes start to prickle, I don’t wipe away the tears that fall.
Once I’ve had a good sob, I pull out my biggest saucepan and add oil. I find the box of spices I’ve brought from home, and line the jars up on the windowsill. I throw in mustard seeds, cumin, turmeric and nutmeg, just as I remember from Jamie Oliver’s best piccalilli recipe. Then I turn down the heat and add mustard powder, flour and a splash of vinegar. The mixture starts to thicken, just as it’s supposed to, and I take comfort from having control over something, even if it is only piccalilli. I top up the vinegar and add water. The smell hits my nostrils as the liquid hits the pan, sizzling and spitting with glorious sounds and a spicy aroma. When I used to make this back home, all the flats around where Grandad lived would be full of the smell and I’d have to deliver extra jars to the neighbours to keep them happy.
Whilst the piccalilli is bubbling away, I grab a bottle of water and start to put my other books on the mantelpiece in the living room.
‘Ah ha!’ I pick up a book triumphantly. I knew it was here somewhere. I give the cover a wipe with my hand and blow off the dust, then sit on the cool flagstone floor, sipping from my bottle. Outside I can still hear the voices from the family get-together next door. Most of the neighbours seem to be there. Although I did notice that there was a similar gathering, with everyone dressed in black, going on at Forno Sophi
a at the end of the lane. And if I’m not mistaken, it was the other family I’d seen standing on the church steps. One funeral, two wakes by the looks of it. Unusual, I think as I flick through my gardening book, trying to identify anything I’ve seen in the vegetable plot at the side of the house. What about that big prickly bush that looks like something from The Jungle Book? Could it be that? I look at a picture of a bush that’s apparently a rhododendron. Maybe this book is only for British plants. I don’t have a clue. It’s pretty, though, the bush; I wonder if it would make a nice picture for a Mother’s Day card.
I think back to the emails from Brandon. I really need to start work on something for him this evening. I can’t afford to cheese him off any more. And the quicker I get something out to him, the quicker I’ll get some money in. I decide to take my camera outside and photograph a few plants to put into a design.
I scramble to my feet and grab my camera and the book. I push open the big glass doors at the back of the house, and pick my way tentatively through the undergrowth and out to the vegetable plot. I just hope there aren’t any snakes in this long grass.
Marco leaned back against the trunk of the big olive tree and let out a huge sigh, allowing his shoulders to drop and his hands to fall to his sides. His head tipped back to touch the bark of the tree too. He stared at the big house. The walls that had once been terracotta red were now faded and peeling. He couldn’t believe how much it had deteriorated since the last time he’d been here. But when had that been? Months turned to years so quickly. All the time he’d been away, he hadn’t had to think about this place. But now that he was back, it brought it all home as if it was yesterday.
He didn’t have time to come back. His life in Naples was so busy. When he wasn’t teaching and working hands-on in the research laboratories, there were lectures to give on tastings and growing patterns, not to mention the articles he wrote for British food magazines. The British seemed obsessed with the Italian way of life. But he wasn’t complaining: there was plenty of work for an English-speaking olive oil expert. And now he’d had an offer to write a whole book on the subject. He ran his fingers through his hair. He just needed the time to do it. At the moment, he barely saw the inside of his apartment.
He needed to find a way to put things right for his family. Once this was settled, he’d be able to go back to his work, his life in Naples, with peace of mind. They deserved to have something from the old man’s estate after everything that had happened.
Everyone had been affected by what Marco’s father had done, his grandfather more than most. He’d had to watch his own family divide and fall apart. He had died knowing that his life’s work, the estate where they’d all grown up, had been carved up and sold off. If only his father hadn’t been such a greedy man. Marco rolled his hands into fists. The estate had been making a name for itself, but Marco’s father hadn’t been content to let things grow slowly; he’d wanted change, and fast. New house, new car. Maybe he’d thought his family would love him more if he could give them those things. He’d forgotten what was really important in life: his family and this place. Marco felt the familiar stirrings of anger as he remembered the day it had all come to an end. The local businessmen and their men had turned up. They’d found out about his father selling the watered-down oil, sending it abroad, making fast money for a fake product, cheapening the name of the area and its good reputation.
He didn’t know who his father had been more worried about, the authorities, the local Mafia or the business contacts he’d conned. It certainly wasn’t his family. Marco remembered the look on his grandfather’s face, the look of disbelief that his son could do this to the family name. His brother had stopped speaking to him there and then. And then he’d disappeared, leaving his family to face the shame. Filippo had only been a baby then. Their father had died some years later in a road traffic accident in the north. Marco, an angry teenager, hadn’t shed a tear. Not like his grandfather, who had wept for everything that had been lost.
Marco, like his cousins, who were strangers to him, had moved away at the first opportunity. He had helped his grandfather on the farm up until that point, but when an opening at the college came up, he fled too. He loved his family but he had a life to live. His grandfather, desperate to keep the family together, gave all his grandchildren parcels of land in an effort to keep them in Della Terra, but as the estate became more and more divided, so did the family.
It was never going to put right what had gone on, but maybe if the house was back in the family they could all decide what to do with it, how it should be divided, and then get on with their lives, finally move on. His sister could move into town, even start up her own restaurant. Filippo could go to England as he’d always wanted to. Marco was sure the cousins would want to sever ties with this place too. But first he had to get the masseria back into the family, for all their sakes. He wished he’d seen his grandfather before he died. He shouldn’t have left it so long between visits. He would visit Nonna and Mamma more often from now on.
He felt that anger rise in him again. If only his grandfather had told him he was in trouble. He could’ve helped. After all, it was because of his father that the trouble had started in the first place. He should’ve been given the chance to try and put it right. He clenched and unclenched his fists, looking up into the boughs of the silver and green olive tree.
As for this Ruthie Collins, he couldn’t make her out at all. He felt bad. Maybe he’d been a bit hard on her. But she didn’t look like she’d come here to turn the place back into an olive business again. Most of the tourists who bought here thought that a bit of sun and good food would put right all their problems, but problems had a habit of following you wherever you went.
The little fawn dog crept up behind him and lay down at his feet. He smiled and bent to stroke her head.
Having said that, there weren’t many people he knew who would do what she’d done: take on a house like this, in a country they didn’t know. She was either very brave or as mad as they came. He straightened up and watched her coming out of the house, tiptoeing through the long grass with a camera and a book. He found himself smiling. Either brave or mad, and he still had no idea which.
She was definitely intriguing, he thought, and attractive. He liked her spirit. She excited him. She was determined and feisty. In another time, another place, he would have liked to ask her to dinner, find out more. With a thud, he realised this was the first woman he had actually found attractive in a very long time. Maybe it was grief playing tricks with his mind. He shook his head. He needed to get this business sorted quickly. There was no way he could let her get under his skin, no way at all. Much as he’d like to find out more about what made Ruthie Collins tick, he needed to keep her at arm’s length.
He could hear his mother calling him. He turned towards the house. She probably didn’t need him; she just liked the fact he was here. She wanted them all to live here, but life just wasn’t like that. He’d stay until the business with the masseria was sorted, then he’d have to go back to Naples. He would need to raise some money, but no one was giving out loans these days. He had to try, though. After all, hadn’t Ruthie Collins said today that she was happy for him to buy it back from her? She’d obviously realised she’d made a mistake. She’d be pleased to go. He’d go round and sort it in the morning.
He watched her with her book again, trying to sort out what was what in the vegetable plot. She didn’t even know one type from another. How did someone like that ever think they could manage an olive grove? He shook his head. Definitely madness, he thought. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, surprising him. Then he shook his head again, reminding himself: Arm’s length. Remember: arm’s length. Life was complicated enough already. But what was she up to? He couldn’t help but wonder. She was obviously oblivious to him being there. The last thing he wanted was to scare her by moving suddenly. He’d just wait until she spotted him, make p
olite conversation and then move away quickly. Like the voice in his head kept saying: Arm’s length.
From the back door here I can see my land . . . my land, I repeat slowly in my head. To the left of the masseria there’s some scrubland and then another olive grove even more overgrown than mine. On the right there is a falling-down stone wall and on the other side of it more olive trees, only here there’s not a weed or bramble in sight. The ground is deep reddish brown, like the colour of hennaed hair, and has little grooves in it like someone’s carefully combed it. The party next door is in full swing. The guests have moved from standing around with glasses of Prosecco to sitting outside the back of the house at tables laid with white cloths. The forno is chugging out smoke and the smell of aromatic herbs and cooking meat makes my mouth water. Every now and again I hear Anna-Maria’s voice giving out instructions, and I relish the sound of the language that I fell in love with on that college trip.
I look back out to my land. I can just see a table and chairs under the big listing olive tree right in front of me, offering shade with its big branches. I might even hang a hammock there. Because as lovely as they are to look at, I don’t think I’ll be doing much with the olive trees. I certainly won’t be combing the ground around them. I’ve got enough to do with the house.
